Disclaimer:
Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to
me. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary:
Ironhide's job was to break down walls. Ratchet's job was to know
who was truly the one in trouble. Ironhide x Ratchet.

Author's Note:
Written for lyricality, as we decided on a fic trade. Megatron x
Optimus for me, and Ironhide x Ratchet for her. I hope you like it,
Lyric! If you don't, then I'll be across the border before you
read this message.

8888

On the foothills of the
eastern Sierra Nevada, south of Mammoth Lakes, California, the land
dipped into a valley to cradle lush grassland, bordered by conifer
forest. Ironhide had approved of the spot, impressed by the seclusion
and defenses offered by the mountains. Upon his recommendation, the
United States government had quickly acted, purchasing the outlying
lands and closing its associated hills to hikers and campers; the sky
above was restricted to military aircraft. Base construction had
begun almost immediately, though it was proceeding slowly to avoid
attracting attention. Runways and barracks were given priority; the
roads were still dirt. But the first stage to be fully completed was
that of infirmary, its architecture as much art as it was
engineering. Ironhide suspected that this was a result of combining
Cybertronian efficiency with the human aesthetic: the building was
large, its ceiling arched high enough for even Optimus to stand up
comfortably, and the lines of architecture were kept simple, the
colors clean and cool. The design was a far cry from the makeshift
medbays in which Ratchet had previously been forced to operate, and
even farther from field conditions; from the start, the building was
designed so that it would be a hospital, belying the base's purpose
as foundation for a future city and the hospital's place as that
city's cornerstone.

Ironhide stepped up to
the infirmary, its stone façade the picture of elegance; the edges
were concave out as if in stretching in welcome. Next to the glass
entranceway, etched into the stone: May I long experience the joy
of healing those who seek my help. Below it, a gold inlay of the
emblem of the Cybertronian medical guild, paired with the rod of
Asclepius. Safety and waste disposal inspections were still being
conducted, and human and Autobot workers were still painting and
posting signs, but Ironhide stepped around them as he followed the
main corridor to general admission. The hospital was, for all intents
and purposes, complete, and Ironhide wanted to see Ratchet. For the
moment, he was free from worries and obligations. Being appointed
with the task of building a new medbay had taken its toll on the
medic: confronted with two standards for health, and the need for
both mechanical waste disposal and human sterility, Ratchet had spent
all hours of the day researching, speaking with consultants,
directing construction, and ordering supplies. Whatever spare time
was left to him was exhausted in learning human medicine from the
military's top physicians.

Ironhide found him in
the western wing: an open, undivided room in which to house and treat
the less serious cases, be they human or Autobot. Ratchet was
resting, stretched out on a berth, his hands folded across his
abdomen. Like the lobby, the wing was lightly colored, mostly white
but with touches of tasteful green, and open to the outside. Windows
almost overwhelmed the room, high and open to encourage in the faint
breeze and framing the blue mountains. They made the room light,
airy, and even Ironhide with his distaste for medbays found this
human touch to be….soothing. Ratchet himself was staring out the
windows, and Ironhide was pleased to see that Ratchet had consented
to taking a few moments of relaxation.

"I like the windows,"
Ironhide said as he walked into the room, the doors sliding shut
behind him.

"There has been much
research done showing that high ceilings and natural ventilation work
to reduce the exposure to airborne contagions," Ratchet replied,
not turning to look back at Ironhide. "As well as elevating
psychological health. A view of nature seems to reduce anxiety, and
promote a sense of tranquility."

Ironhide ran a hand
along the edge of the berth, fingertips skimming the padding.

"Getting a sense of
how it feels for us?"

"I need to make sure
they're comfortable," Ratchet said, finally turning his head to
look up at Ironhide. "I borrowed a few ideas from human beds, and I
wanted to test their efficiency. The only way for me to know how the
patient is experiencing comfort is for me to test it myself."

"Can I try?"

Ratchet's glance was
fleeting, barely enough for Ironhide to feel the pointed weight of it
before Ratchet shifted, moving to the side to make room. Ironhide let
himself sink into the padding, the cables and gears in his joints
loosening atop the softest support he had ever felt, and he could not
stop himself from making a grunting sound of approval.

"It's nice."

"Modified memory foam
technology," Ratchet said. "Durable and firm enough to withstand
tearing, but with enough give so as to relieve pressure points and
support sensitive or injured joints. It even adjusts its shape to
conform to different Autobots and their needs. The human beds are
equipped with similar mattresses."

"You did good,
Ratchet. I'm impressed."

"There's still work
to be done, but it's adequate."

Ironhide scoffed. As
though Ratchet would settle for 'adequate' when it came to his
patients' welfare. While Ratchet would more often curse at his
patients than not, any time the quality of his medbay fell below
standard, every officer within the Autobot ranks would soon hear
about it. On more than a few occasions had Ratchet even impeded on
Ironhide's weaponry budget and raw materials, taking them for his
own. His tenacity had paid off, however. While the Decepticons had
the better artillery, the Autobots, thanks to Ratchet, had the
greater numbers. And there was no doubt in Ironhide's mind that
Ratchet's hospital would be on par with the Cybertronian Medical
Guild's college when it had been at its peak.

"What?" Ratchet
asked, pulling back slightly at Ironhide's stare.

"Just thinking that
it's been a while since I've seen you this friendly," Ironhide
responded, letting a tint of tease into his voice.

"And why not? I'm
friendly, I'm nice," Ratchet said with a frown, though Ironhide
could think of a few individuals who would be willing to argue those
particular statements. "Besides, I have exactly what I always want:
an empty medbay."

Ratchet sounded content
enough as he said it, but, truth told, Ironhide had always felt sorry
for medic 'bots, and Ratchet was no exception. A Ratchet who was
not working on repairing injuries, or worrying over a patient's
status was a disquieting sight—and no one could miss the relief and
pride that Ratchet felt at a patient's recovery, but at the same
time, Ratchet never wanted to see anyone have to need him.

This was the reason,
among others, why Ironhide knew that he himself could never be a
medic. In fact, to say that Ratchet, of all Autobots, was the
strongest could easily be a well-supported argument. He was
efficient, yet considerate; deliberate and clear-headed;
quick-thinking and brilliant. Most important, though, was his ability
to take losses hard, but not personally. He could be sorrowful,
remorseful, but despite Prime's concerns, Ratchet had long since
learned how to absolve himself of guilt and accept his own
limitations against those circumstances beyond his control. No,
Ratchet was a better medic than that. He would have destroyed himself
long ago if he weren't. Ironhide had found himself wishing many
times that his soldiers could possess the same mind-set.

All of it was very
compelling, and Ironhide was moving before he realized what he was
doing. He shifted on to his side, reaching out to capture one of
Ratchet's hands in his own. Ratchet flinched in surprise, but
Ironhide had found his grip. As Ratchet relaxed, Ironhide shifted his
hand from Ratchet's wrist, running fingertips along the support
bars and radial joint before stretching out to rest his palm against
Ratchet's in a Cybertronian kiss. The armor between them made
attempting a human-style kiss near impossible, but Ironhide did not
particularly mind. He was less interested in mimicking human methods
than engaging in the old, far more elegant style of Cybertronian
intimacy. Ratchet was old enough to share in Ironhide's classical
taste, and pressed back. Intimate, indeed.

A mech's hands
contained the most sensitive of all the tactile cells, and to touch
hands was considered deeply personal. Many of the younger mechs,
Prime included, considered the idea old-fashioned. But those younger
bots were built differently; their outer plates had more sensory
cells, were more receptive to touch. Ratchet, like Ironhide, was of
an older construction, and most of their bodies consisted of dermal
dead zones. It was what had given Ironhide the mythos of being
impervious to pain, and had made him the perfect warrior; Ratchet
could tear spare parts from himself in the field with no
consideration, the only sign of anything awry being the warnings that
would flash through his central processor. They just did not build
mechs like that anymore.

But the hands…Ironhide
knew that a mech's hands, be they small or large, dented or smooth,
jointed or inflexible, intact or missing parts, defined who that mech
was as an individual. A mech's life was etched into their hands:
their caste, their past, their injuries and repairs. Hands were how
mechs felt the world around them. How they felt others. To touch
that, to know that his own life and personality were being explored
in return…'intimate' all at once became too weak a word.

Ratchet too rolled on
to his side, facing Ironhide as he reached for Ironhide's other
hand. His optics were dim, almost dark against the bright light
streaming in from outside, and Ironhide let their fingers
lightly—ever so slightly—intertwine. There was hesitation, for
the both of them. There always was, but to let their fingers fall in
together, to let them slide between and settle in those tiny seams
where cabling and gears came near the surface, was all too easy. A
long time had passed since they both had had a spare moment—even
longer since there was peace enough to enjoy it.

Oh, but Ratchet was
tired. Ironhide could feel it in his medic's hands: the wires were
kinked and uncomfortably taut, the gears grinding together more
harshly than they should. Ironhide worked his fingers along Ratchet's
palms, massaging the plates to encourage lubrication valves to open
and ease the stiffness, to let coolant lines activate and let them
carry away the heat wreaking havoc on the intricate machinery in the
carpal and phalangeal joints. These were problems that had plagued
Ratchet before, their frequency increasing with the building years.
Ratchet was hard on his hands, forcing upon them delicate, precise,
repetitious work, and they were wearing down accordingly.

Ironhide let a small
part of himself relish the small moan of relief from Ratchet, at the
same time cautious of becoming too involved too quickly. More often
than not, Ratchet had to be coaxed, as he detested being dragged into
a situation that had not been his idea in the first place.

"Do you think this is
it? The end of the war?" Ratchet asked, reading Ironhide's own
aches and uncertainties in the crumpled black plating. "Now that
Megatron is dead."

"Perhaps. As long as
those reports of Soundwave's and Shockwave's deaths are true.
Starscream certainly will not be able to hold the Decepticons
together. At any rate, I admire you for building this hospital like
the war is over," Ironhide answered.

"And what will you
do?"

Ironhide paused.

"Don't know. Never
thought I'd get this far."

The look that Ratchet
gave him was searching, and a little uncomprehending.

"I can't imagine
what it must be like," Ratchet said. "To be so involved with war.
I could never do what you do."

I could never devote
my life to finding new ways to kill people. A little
condescending perhaps, but Ironhide suspected that Ratchet did not
intentionally try to sound as such. Besides, he simply would not be a
medic without that touch of arrogance.

The exasperation in
Ratchet's voice was amusing, and Ironhide gave Ratchet's hands a
gentle squeeze before letting his fingers slide down and towards the
seams of Ratchet's forearms. Ratchet stilled, tensing as Ironhide
found the latches to the casing that protected the wires and cabling.

"I don't want to do
this," Ratchet murmured, but Ironhide would have found the
complaint more believable if his voice had not wavered when he said
it.

That did cause Ironhide
to pause, and there was a flicker of irritation in his Spark before
he reined it in, keeping it from flaring into anger.

"I see. So now, you
have no excuse. I had hoped it wasn't just desperation."

It hurt more than
Ironhide would have expected. While romance had not been a factor for
either of them, Ironhide had at least thought that there had been
some measure of respect between them. The implication that Ratchet
had been with him only when he believed that he would not return,
when he did not have to face the consequences and his own conscience,
prickled at Ironhide's pride, fatiguing him.

"I don't appreciate
being used."

Ratchet flinched, and
the flare of insult that flashed in those oh-so-blue optics let
Ironhide believe him when he said,

"It's not like
that."

"Then let me just—"

"Damn it, Ironhide! I
said no!" Ratchet exclaimed, pushing Ironhide back as he swung
himself off of the berth, taking several steps back. Ironhide let him
go, taking note of Ratchet's defensive stance and the sounds of
saws scraping together. While Ratchet ever actually attacking him was
unlikely, the warning was clear enough. But there was something off
about him, too: a tremor in each step he took backwards, the way his
head was slightly dipped instead of held high. And whether Ratchet
liked it or not, Ironhide knew him well.

"For the love of—do
I have to spell it out for you? I do not want this, and I do not want
to be with you anymore."

Before he thought to
argue, before his reply formed in his vocal processor, Ironhide heard
the catch.

"Anymore?"

The plates around
Ratchet's optics narrowed, the light in them darkening. For a
moment, the room was quiet, complete silence broken only by the muted
sounds of the birds just outside the windows, the high and uneven
crescendos of the cicadas and crickets, the wind coming down from the
mountains. Human voices, mixed with Autobot, were even more distant,
their laughter carried on the breeze. Ironhide could only wonder on
how brave Ratchet was going to be, but his expectations were low. As
devoted as he was to saving the injured, healing the sick, and how
demanding he was of their own self-fortitude, Ratchet himself was
rather helpless in the face of uncertainty, pulled about by its
tethers. While Ratchet could regularly be seen using unorthodox
methods, he despised recklessness. It lost him patients. It lost him
control of the situation.

"I enjoy our
friendship," Ratchet answered, and Ironhide found his expectations
proved right. The honesty was there, but Ratchet had used it with a
sort of…mal-purpose, as it was his anchor for keeping him from
taking a risk. Always better to 'play it safe.' "As frustrating
and time-consuming as your disregard for your well-being can be, you
do seem to have a modicum of sense in your processor. I will admit to
our compatibility, but that does not mean that we have to do anything
with it. I would think us both capable of imposing at least a little
self-restraint."

Ironhide chuckled as he
shifted on the berth, reaching for the frame to support himself as he
moved to roll off. Ratchet was the most ornery, contradictory,
prickly person that Ironhide had ever met.

Never in his life had
Ironhide wanted anyone as badly.

Old he might be, but
Ironhide's Spark was made for fighting; he felt it as keenly as
Prime yearned for peace, and Ratchet was doing little more than
proving to be Ironhide's hardest fight yet. A lot more than that
pitiful argument was needed before he was discouraged enough to—

"I asked Prime about
her," Ratchet said, sounding just a little panicked. Ironhide froze
mid-motion, one foot resting on the floor while his other leg was
folded awkwardly underneath him on the berth. Her. There was no need
for Ratchet to clarify who 'her' was, for Ironhide knew, her name
ringing like a struck bell in the back of his processor. Chromia.

Ironhide winced as the
old injury in his hip complained at the strain of supporting his
weight, and he brought his other leg down, immediately shifting his
weight off the bad joint.

"It's fine," he
replied, and let his weight shift back. It wasn't fine; the cogs in
his hip twinged in pain, but there was no way that he was going to
let Ratchet side-step his way out of this one. Ratchet seemed to
sense this as well: his shoulders slumped slightly in resignation.

"He said that he met
her a few times, back on Cybertron. He said that you loved her."

"I did," Ironhide
replied, seeing no reason to be anything but honest. He had loved
her; there was no reason to hide it. He never had wanted to hide it,
though he had finally reached a point where he could talk about her
without aching, without falling into the hole her death had left in
him. But Ratchet would not have known that, would he? Ironhide knew
this was partly his fault. He had never really spoken to Ratchet
about Chromia's death, and Ratchet still saw him as attached.
Ironhide stepped forwards, and though Ratchet took a step back, he
had been near the wall, and Ironhide was able to corner him all too
easily.

"Ratchet, I—"

"I will not compete
with her," Ratchet interrupted. "I will not be a replacement."

Ironhide moved even
before he himself realized it, one arm coming up to throw Ratchet up
against the wall and hold him there while the cannon in his other arm
snapped into place, heating with a building charge. Ratchet froze,
absolutely still as the cannon hovered dangerously close to his head.
Judging by the look in Ratchet's optics, Ironhide could only
imagine the expression on his own face.

"I care about you,
Ratchet," Ironhide began, voice rough and graveled as he fought to
keep a level temper. "I may even love you—"

Ratchet started
violently, but Ironhide held him firm.

"—and because of
that I will take a hell of a lot of your abuse. But I'll be damned
if I ever let you insult her, or me, like that again."

Replacement. The
word burned its way through Ironhide's processor. It twisted
painfully in his Spark, and, just like that, Ironhide could nearly
feel her loss again, making him sick. No one would ever be able to
replace Chromia.

Just as no one would
ever be able to replace Ratchet.

"No one can replace
Chromia," Ironhide murmured, cannon powering down as it folded back
into place. Ratchet did not relax. "But the fact is is that she's
dead, and I am not."

"That easy for you to
give up a lover, is it?" Ratchet countered viciously, but Ironhide
refused to rise to the baiting. Rather, he felt that he should have
seen this coming long ago.

"I lived a hell of a
long time with only her memory for company. It's time that I moved
on with my life."

Ironhide waited for a
response, but Ratchet stayed quiet, and Ironhide finally released his
grip on the medic. Ratchet did drop his gaze, though, looking off to
the side and studying the far corner. He was almost shaking—a
slight trembling that crawled across the line of his shoulders—and
Ironhide did not think anyone could blame him when he reached for
Ratchet, reached out to once more bring those rough, chipped,
worn-out hands into his own.

"Ratchet," Ironhide
murmured as he stepped in closer, only the width of a breath between
their chests. "I want you."

Ratchet's gaze
flickered to Ironhide's, but the expression in his optics was
unreadable. Ironhide was less concerned with that, however, than with
the way that Ratchet shuddered as Ironhide's fingers slid across
the seams of his armor, and the way that Ratchet's resistance was
steadily crumbling. Ironhide was pleased, and not a little
self-satisfied. His job was to break down walls, and he was good at
it. He followed as Ratchet leaned back, resting against the wall for
support, and he carefully dipped beneath the deltoid plate to find
the central brachial cable—the primary energon circulation line for
the arms. The younger bots had their cables protected by heavily
reinforced, flexible polymer sheaths; mechs like Ratchet and himself
had theirs armored by thin, metallic casings. It left them stiffer,
their range of movements smaller, and once the casings were opened,
the cables were vulnerable. And sensitive.

Ironhide freed the
brachial cable and pressed it between thumb and forefinger, releasing
it seconds later. The effect was immediate, if as of yet
unimpressive: Ratchet tensed and relaxed, leaning his head backwards
against the wall. Ironhide could feel his own internal mechanisms
begin to hum and churn in anticipation, relishing Ratchet's
strengthening reactions with each repeated squeeze-and-release. The
technique was originally medical in nature: momentarily cutting off
energon circulation before restoring it created a state of
energon-saturation, a condition that deadened internal nerves to pain
and made them tingle delightfully. The sensation was dizzying,
euphoric, creating a sense of light-headedness and overall bliss.
Medic 'bots used energon-saturation as anesthesia. Others used it
as a method of lowering inhibitions, of re-creating the sensation of
Spark-to-Spark contact without the risk inherent in such raw
intimacy.

It worked beautifully;
Ratchet's hold was awkward on Ironhide's elbow joints,
alternating between nearly crushing and non-existent as Ironhide
worked the energon circulation in Ratchet's arms, enticing out
those stuttering rumbles from deep within. There was something heady,
almost empowering, in making Ratchet lose his composure. That Ratchet
was letting him was even more exhilarating; Ratchet trusted
well, but not easily, and Ironhide felt his own Spark thrum in
response to that trust. Desire stretched, uncoiling as Ironhide ran
his hands out and across Ratchet's broad shoulder armor. He could
feel the strength there, even as the machinery trembled and stalled;
Ratchet could carry wounded mechs nearly twice his weight and size
off the battlefield. So much power, and to keep it so tightly reined
was a shame, almost a waste. To see it unleashed…Ironhide himself
shivered at the thought before drifting onwards, his fingers catching
lightly on the grill guard across Ratchet's chest.

He was aiming lower,
for the tires at Ratchet's hips and upper thighs, but was stopped
as Ratchet grabbed at his wrist and held it, letting Ironhide's
hand come close enough to the chest plates that Ironhide could just
feel the stirring energy from Ratchet's Spark. Ironhide stilled. He
and Ratchet had never gone Spark-to-Spark before, mostly due to
Ratchet's introversion and Ironhide's unwillingness to push him.
They had been perfectly happy without it, their assignations
satisfying, but standing here with Ratchet pressing up into his hand,
Ironhide realized how much he wanted it.

Ironhide was almost
surprised by how deep that want went, too. And it was
strange—something almost forgotten—to have the familiar pangs of
lust be absent and instead have desire curling like deep ocean
currents. It carried in its wake the soft waves of memory, sad and
refreshing and dangerously close to nostalgia. The desire threatened
to rip him apart, slowly, stretching the wires and gears so taut that
they would eventually snap.

In short, he was dying.

Ratchet was the one to
pull him closer, the grill across Ratchet's chest splitting as the
plates retracted into the broad stretch of his shoulders. Exposed was
the thin layer of cables and soft metal that covered Ratchet's
Spark. Ironhide could feel it through the casing, warm and pulsing,
with such sharpness and control that lightning had only in weak
imitation. Ironhide let himself indulge, stroking his fingertips
along the Spark covering, and Ratchet's grip dug almost too tightly
into the back of his head. The casing's seams parted behind his
caresses, silently but brightly, flooding the small spaces between
them with pale blue light, like sunlight through sea ice. Not until
that light darkened did Ironhide catch up with himself, and see that
his own chest plates had separated in response. His Spark was darker
than Ratchet's, deeper and maybe dimmer, a polished slate that over
the years had begun to lose its luster.

Their fit was awkward,
but Ironhide could not bring himself to care. Not when Ratchet was
clinging so desperately to him as the first tendrils of their Spark
energies touched. And he would be damned if that first touch did not
throw him in bodily, Ratchet crying out incoherently as Ironhide
pushed forwards, trying to get the cores of their Sparks as close as
possible.

The breach was painful,
the surge of energy almost too much for circuits unused to the flow
and unfamiliar Other. It was painful. And electrifying. And
overwhelming. And—

"Ironhide,"
murmured Ratchet. "Why are you hurting so badly?"

--and the most
overpowering sense of relief that Ironhide had ever felt. Sudden
warmth, where he had not known that he had been cold. Peace, when all
his life he had been at war. Land, where he had been drowning.

He had fallen in.

Ratchet hissed as
Ironhide rushed inwards, curling into Ratchet, digging in even as
Ratchet winced around him. This was Ratchet, all of him: bad-tempered
and uncooperative, stubborn and methodical, conservative and prone to
anger. He was everything Ironhide wanted. And absolutely nothing
like—

Ironhide pulled away,
violently enough that he staggered as the entwined tendrils of their
Spark energies tore and the connection severed. He stumbled, not
bothering to catch himself as he fell to the floor and relishing the
sharp, stabbing pain of his jarred hip joint. He curled in on
himself, covering his optics with his hand to avoid seeing the white
walls of the medbay around him. To avoid seeing Ratchet move to kneel
next to him.

"It's okay,
Ironhide," Ratchet whispered as he ran a hand along the side of
Ironhide's face. "It's okay. I forgive you."

"Make her go away,"
Ironhide said, unable to care how badly his voice modulator cracked
under the strain, making the words choke. "Make her leave me alone.
I love you, Ratchet."

There was a moment of
silence—of breeze through the curtains—before he heard Ratchet
slump in resignation, his weight settling heavily on the floor.

"No," said Ratchet.
"You don't. But you want to, and you're making yourself believe
that. 'Replacement' was a wrong choice of word and I regret that,
but you are trying to run away, and I can't help you with that."

Ironhide could feel the
bite of his own grip as he dug his fingers into his palm, unable to
escape the white hot lance of Ratchet's voice, of his words. Damn
it to the Pit that she was still here, following him, sitting in the
corner, hovering at his shoulder. He had loved her with all that he
had, he missed her, but why that was not enough for her to just let
him be…and she had shown herself to Ratchet, the one person
who would never be able to ignore her.

"I wanted to believe
you," Ratchet continued. Ironhide found little comfort in the way
that Ratchet's voice was wavering, too. "I wanted it so badly.
But this is something you have to do on your own."

"I thought you were
supposed to heal people."

"I can only give the
medicine. You're the one who has to take it. And now," Ratchet
said, though it was more to himself than anyone. "I have to walk
away."

Ironhide felt Ratchet
almost pause, almost hesitate before getting up and leaving, but no.
Ratchet was a better medic than that. He was the best, to leave
Ironhide on the floor of the medbay, to let the weapon's specialist
to eventually gather up his own strength to stand up. Ratchet left.
And Ironhide could not even fault him for it, not even when Chromia
settled down beside him, waiting.

Ironhide's job was to
break down walls.

Ratchet's job was to
know who was truly the one in trouble.

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